


Good Morning, Camp Hydaway

by staniel (bearsquares)



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, bookverse, poly losers club, some of it is wholesome idk what happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearsquares/pseuds/staniel
Summary: Ben and Richie spend the summer of 196X working as camp counselors. They regret everything but the raunchy bunkhouse sex.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Richie Tozier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Good Morning, Camp Hydaway

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first draft of this back in 2018 whoops. But after an entire year of producing 0 Losers Club content, I finished it...with a few weeks of summer to spare. B) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

  
  


-

  
  


“Cover your mouth, you’re breathing too loud.”

“You’re the one talking.”

“If Ted wakes up, it’s on you, man.”

“These odds kinda suck, I—” Ben’s voice died in his throat as Richie’s mouth slipped over his cock.

The risk of being caught was a little concerning, but getting kicked out of this hellhole and sent back to Derry didn’t sound all bad when he considered an entire summer of not having to screw in the dark. They could even throw in a few of their friends, and be as loud as they wanted, whenever they wanted. But the two of them had committed to eight weeks with a bunch of kids and twenty-somethings, people who really didn’t need to know about the Losers Club of Derry, Maine’s scandalous (and downright sick to most people) arrangement. 

After a moment of short licks and ball-fondling, Ben folded at last and clapped a hand over his mouth. 

Richie rewarded him with a long, lengthwise drag of his tongue. “There’s a good boy.” 

Ben shoved his hips upward, muffling a tight, impatient groan. The guy was a tease, but he could work miracles when he felt like it. He hoped to god Rich wouldn’t try to make him start begging with their zit-faced narc of a roommate snoozing not ten feet away. (And he was a certified narc by Ben’s reckoning, especially with a name like _Ted_.)

He fisted and tugged on a handful of Richie’s unruly hair, signalling him to quit fucking around.

"Alright, alright! Jesus!" he hissed.

His hot tongue hugged the length of Ben's cock as he began sucking him off with unexpected go. Poor, lip-biting Ben Hanscom took to stroking his fingers through Richie Tozier's hair, fucking it up even worse while he struggled to stay quiet—no way he could ride this out in silence; he was notorious for showing his appreciation in ridiculous ways, especially when getting head. In this case, his leg started twitching like a happy dog's leg. How the fuck could he not be happy balls deep in his best friend’s mouth?

Ben twisted his hips and bucked in a silent plea for the bastard to finish him. Richie swallowed him to the hilt, lathing his tongue balls to tip; Ben bit into his knuckles. He was sweating, for fuck's sake—so much that his bangs were sticking to his forehead. Against his better judgement, he whipped his bed sheet off to one side. Richie’s wild blue eyes glinted with such fiendish excitement Ben didn’t even think to check if Ted had turned over in his sleep. He’d upped the stakes and, not to be outdone, Richie upped Ben’s _leg_ and pressed two fingers into his asshole.

Payback for this was going to be so, so sweet. Maybe in the t-house—yeah, getting railed behind a ragged shower curtain while everyone else was half-assedly forcing kids to sing about bears and logs and shit. But all Ben cared about right now was heat and tension rushing in like a slow motion knockout punch. It about pushed an encouraging “yeah, that’s it” out between his lips, but he held it. Instead, he yanked on Richie's hair again, pulling him on and off, trying to keep him fucking consistent—he wasn’t thinking anymore, just confessing in his head over and over that this had been a great idea and goddamn they needed to do it every night or he'd go insane. 

The instant Ben finished, Richie eased his fingers inside of him, working open that tight ring of muscle while his other hand gave his balls a good squeeze. He came harder than he had in two semesters.

He thrust up into Richie’s mouth as he came down, feeling him work to swallow all of the cum spurting and sliding down the back of his throat. 

He was too good. _Way_ too good.

They plunged into a ringing silence, the room vibrating with quiet, as if someone had just shut down a bunch of loud machinery. Richie’s quick breaths whistled through that busted nose of his. Ben’s heartbeat slowed with his own panting. And the crickets outside chirped on, nice and shrill.

Ted gave an apneic snort and shifted on his bed.

Richie giggled to himself and scampered up Ben’s torso like a raccoon. He dipped his cowlicky head and gave him the most obscene kiss before ghosting off the top bunk, back down to his own. 

It had been Richie’s bright idea to work as a camp counselor that summer. “To make some extra cash and do something different,” he had said in his initial pitch. Ben was the only one in the group who fell for it. He figured why the fuck not? His past semester at college had been an over-productive nightmare and doing literally anything else was good enough for him. It probably would have been wiser suffering Derry a little longer to spend the summer with Mike, Beverly and Bill, but there was also something to be said for being stuck out in the woods at some bumfuck hippie camp for eight weeks.

Or maybe there wasn’t and they had both gone totally dogshit. Ben was sure they’d gone dogshit, actually, because it hadn’t been a week and they were already blowing each other in their bunks. 

  
  


-

  
  


_Good morning, Camp Hydaway! It’s 7 in the AM. Hope you all enjoyed “Reverie” for the 50th time. With any luck, Chuck Mangione will answer my letters and come wake your butts up with a live cover_ —OW! Jesus, Maureen! Okay.

_Announcements! Frank Hill_ — _Oh, I’m sorry,_ Doctor _Frank Hill from the Audubon Society will be laying down an evening lecture, which_ is _mandatory, so don’t try skipping out to go schleeming in the woods or you'll be identifying bird calls until dawn! ‘Til then, we’ve got another sunny day, so wear your sunscreen, kiddos._

  
  


-

  
  


“They’re so gonna fire you,” Ben chuckled. “ _Oh, shit_ —” He jerked his arm up, nearly elbowing a kid’s nose in his rush to save a bowl of raisins from being catapulted by a serving spoon. “I mean, _shoot_ … You didn’t hear that, Thomas.”

Richie grinned. “And lose this handsome voice? P’shaw.”

A kid of about seven craned his little pencil neck to gawk up at Ben. “Who’s getting fired?”

“Eat your oatmeal, Daniel."

They had assigned him to the younger group for a reason. He never lost his temper, they actually listened to him, and he even had the beginnings of a foxy tired dad look going for him—he was _great_ with kids. And Richie knew that better than anyone. There had been a kid running wild inside of him his entire life, and Ben was one of the few people who could get the little fucker to calm down. 

“I’m just saying,” Ben continued around a mouthful of Raisin Bran, “you’re gonna rack up some actual strikes pretty soon.”

“Look, Haystack, I’m doing my best.”

And he was, honestly. He wound up with the eleven-and-twelve-year-olds, and there were a couple of real twerps in his group that even Mike Hanlon would've loved to hoist up the flagpole by their tighty-whities. Kids who bitched about every little thing and invented new and unusual ways to get out of activities. But Richie held his tongue. Perhaps those unmet urges to flambé their asses contributed to his getting all hopped up and trying to jump his bunk-buddy every night after lights out. Or (more likely) it was because said bunk-buddy was sex in striped tube socks. Oh, Richie took the sickest pleasure in having him all to himself—every slobbering Gina and Sue-Ellen who clapped eyes on Ben would have to get in line behind him: _that obnoxious son of a bitch, Richie Tozier._

“I know, man, I know. Alrighty!” Ben picked up a rubber spatula and waved it over the breakfast table. A few children flinched away like he was about to start whapping their little heads with it. “Who’s scraping?”

“Nose-game-not-it!” Richie cried, poking the tip of his nose. The kids (and Ben) scrambled to copy him.

A chubby girl with pigtails came last and pounded her fist on the table with a hearty “goddamnit!”

“I’m gonna start a swear jar for you, Amanda, seriously. Get scraping.”

“Oh-kay...”

  
  


-

  
  


There was no hell quite like swim lessons. 

Most of the older campers could already swim just fine, so it wasn’t as much of a lesson as it was Richie trying to keep a crowd of scatterbrained kids entertained for half an hour. This should have been no sweat for a guy with his talents, but his current repertoire of jokes and voices, if repeated by a child, would absolutely get him fired. He also wasn’t a very good lifeguard. In fact, he was convinced a kid would die because of him by August. (The only thing more dangerous to the campers was a zipline from years past which Ben, the resident architect, immediately declared unfit for use. And bears. Bears, Richie Tozier, and the zipline that kills children.) But he passed lifeguard training, somehow. He was certified.

“You kids can doggy paddle, right?” Certified.

Seven or eight wet little faces stared back at him, blanker than blank.

“Thought so. Howza ‘bout...the frog kick?” (He wasn’t dumb enough to say _breaststroke_ —they were pre-teens for christ’s sake.) Silence. He was losing them. “Right. Snoozer. Anyone know freestyle?” Two girls raised their hands. “Great. You can help me out because I stink at that one.”

After a brief and messy demonstration, their roped-off section of the lake began churning with splashes.

Richie hoisted himself up onto the dock where he could survey his flock of kids. It looked less like swimming and more like a cruise liner full of drunks just went down off the coast of Barbados, but no one was complaining. If he hadn’t been doomed to struggle through this every day for the rest of the summer, he would have congratulated himself. Without thinking, he knocked wood on the dock; something to his left shifted. Richie stifled a scream. In classic camp counselor fashion, he had completely forgotten about his ninth or tenth kid. Terrified relief clutched at his chest and he offered a quick prayer up to whatever saint kept kids from walking off lake docks and drowning while he tried to remember the little booger’s name.

“Andy.”

“Elliot.”

“How ya doin’, buddy?” 

The kid wouldn’t look at him, far more interested in fiddling with his grimy shoelaces. He was small for an eleven-or-twelve-year-old, kind of like Stan before his growth spurt. He'd dressed himself in a striped polo shirt and brown corduroy shorts, which blasted Richie right back to his own childhood for a moment—squirming into a new, stiff pair of cords every school year, always right when he’d finally broken in last year’s pair. The memory alone threatened to give him a wedgie.

“Why aren’t you in there with everyone else again?”

“I’m allergic to water.”

_Bullshit_ , Richie thought, _no way you can be allergic to water, people are fucking_ made _of water._ He dropped his chin onto his palm and goggled at the kid in sarcastic wonder. “Ya don’t say!”

“Yeah, egghead, it gives me hives.”

A good whack upside the back of his melon sounded like another fitting symptom, but Richie smiled instead. “Well, ain’t that a pisser?” Elliot replied with a sullen shrug. “Any other ones I should know about?”

“Bees, peanuts, tree pollen, pine sap—”

“Air?” Elliot gave him the finger. Richie decided the kid was alright. “Why are you here, then? I mean, if you’re allergic to everything, why don’t your parents just stick you in a bubble?”

“They don’t want me to miss out on regular stuff."

"Ah."

"But I can’t even _do_ regular stuff. I hate it.”

“I see.”

The conversation died, filled in by screeches of the non-allergic campers slapping around in the lake. It seemed like he’d only pissed the kid off. Eddie could talk to a kid like this without sounding like a total clod, probably. They had a lot in common, now that he thought about it: skinny, small, grouchy, some kind of illness. Richie hadn’t seen ol’ Eds in a hell of a long time, couldn’t even remember where his mom had dragged him off to—New Jersey? One of the Dakotas? Guam?

“Y’know, I have a good friend who missed out on a lot of stuff when we were kids.” Little Elliot gave him a sidelong glance. “You kinda remind me of him—that’s a good thing, great guy—but _his_ mom wouldn’t let him do _anything._ If she had any say in it, he never would’ve left the damn house. Just stayed inside forever…clipping coupons, and folding her pantyhose and stuff.” The boy giggled. “Oh, yeah, man, that woman was nuts.” _Is. Is nuts._ Sympathy for a friend he hadn't seen in years quivered in his gut. God, he hated that feeling. They all did.

“That’s a _real_ pisser.”

“You bet. But I know he would’ve killed to have parents like yours, kiddo.”

Elliot shrugged his thin shoulders again. “I guess…”

“Swear to god. But hey, summer’s just started, you’ll find something to do. If you’re still bored in three days, come see me—step into my office, _we’ll make youse a deal, paisano.”_

He narrowed his eyes at Richie, unable to hide a twitch of a smile. “You’re weird.”

“Eh? You come into my house? Disrespect me in my own _casa_ , ya little mook?”

Elliot let out a snorty little laugh right as the rusty mess hall bell clanged in the distance. 

Richie clapped his hands together—stinging, attention-grabbing claps. “Alright, everybody out!" he shouted. "Lets go!—Christ almighty, will you kids quit drinking the lake water?! You're all gonna get diarrhea!”

  
  


-

  
  


“Hey, Benny-boy?”

Ben kept his nose tucked in his back issue of _Tales of Suspense._

“Ben.”

Ben turned a page (an ad for X-Ray Specs—nothing to miss), which made a soft crinkling sound. He could tell Richie was feeling punchy and that was not gonna fly with him that afternoon. They had survived the summer and were now dragging ass through the final week of camp. Despite the heavy exhaustion shared by campers and counselors, the place was a raging anthill; another hike or field trip or badly executed prank lurked around every corner, eager to suck them back into the hell-pit of responsibility. Ben had just returned from a suchlike errand.

Around two o'clock, Becky from Cabin 8 had grabbed him out of nowhere and asked him to find some extra life jackets. (She actually _told_ more than asked, but he had taken a few hits after Arts 'n Crafts and was feeling pretty agreeable.) So he popped on over to the storage shed and went about his task, no problem. But there was a big problem—about nine problems as well as he could count—and what should have been a simple favor became a battle. Ben Hanscom, more than a little stoned, versus an entire family of possums. It sobered him up quick. What could be more sobering than trying to reason with a bunch of hissing wild animals? And grabbing a few life jackets sure as hell wasn’t worth the risk of catching some kind of disease no one had thought to vaccinate their kids for back in the 50s. By the time he gave up, Becky was nowhere to be found and his entire afternoon was shot to shit.

Richie thought this was hilarious and, the moment Ben finished recounting the tale, plunged right into his Buford Kissdrivel voice. _“Ya can’t take up with an oh-possum, son, ah say, ya can’t!”_

Ben wasn’t in the greatest mood after that. 

“Did I tell you we got a letter today?” 

Ben ignored him, turning another page.

“Guess who it’s from,” Richie said, sparkling with enthusiasm. “Guess.”

“I give up.”

A Polaroid frisbeed over and landed flat on his chest. Ben took a peek and a wave of embarrassment broke over him. Thank god Richie had been passing out mail on top of his morning radio jockeying because some magnificent asshole named Bill Denbrough had sent them a photograph of Beverly Marsh sunning on a riverbank wearing nothing but a wet t-shirt.

_And it’s white!_ he thought stupidly.

He imagined Bill flapping the photo to speed up the development while Bev, laughing and blushing the sweetest rosy pink, tried to grab it away from him. The thought made him a little jealous, but he was also getting a stiffy in his running shorts and needed to get it under control before Richie noticed.

Ben turned the photo over and found a sloppy, scrawled note:

_Hope you guys aren't being eaten alive. Wish you were here._

_— Bill_

“Stick that one up in your bunk slats, know what I mean?" Richie's snickering voice cut in. "C'mon, I’ll flip ya for it, Haystack.”

“Too easy,” Ben said, grinning. He turned the photo over a few times, suddenly gripped by a desire to keep it. _Maybe you won’t be so surprised next time you see them._ And he had been surprised—floored, almost, when he ran into Mike and Richie back in early June. The tile floor in Keene’s was slick with broken glass and cream soda, and Richie nearly slipped in his hurry to throw himself into Ben’s baffled but waiting arms.  The trouble was he always seemed to lose their pictures. Letters. Any memento, mysteriously vanished. “How 'bout a friendly game of horseshoes, instead?”

“Or we can kick Ted out of the cabin and play a little Cornhole.”

Ben tore his eyes away from Beverly's delightful, glossy form to frown at him. Richie was about to say something else, but a loud creak interrupted him.

“Hey, what’s happening?”

The two clammed up, wincing together at the hefty slam of the Staff Cabin's screen door. Another counselor, a girl called Laurie, stood watching them, hands on her hips. She was kind of a loudmouth, with a sheet of bleach-blonde hair which gave her the silhouette of a kid in a ghost costume. The guys all wanted her because she looked amazing in hiphuggers and apparently hadn’t fucked anyone yet. Like most of the women on staff, she liked Ben and hated Richie. He insisted it was because she had a shit sense of humor, but Ben figured it was because he had threatened to whip her Beach Boys record into the lake three days into camp.

“Nothin’ much,” Ben said.

“Ha ha—awesome. Are you doing the overnight?”

Richie shot Ben a grimace which seemed to say, _"_ _did you forget? Because I forgot."_ Were either of them supposed to go? Maybe that was why Becky was so flipped out over the life jackets.

“Nope.” 

“You definitely lucked out. Anyway, we're doing a fire down by the lake tonight, you should come hang.” She seemed to be fiddling with her hair more than usual. 

Ben glanced at the photo in his hand, at Beverly's chin-length summer cut curling around her cheeks and under her aviator sunglasses. They used to be his, but she had filched them right off his nose and he insisted she keep them. They looked better on her, anyway. He smiled and tucked the Polaroid into his comic book. “Sounds good. Thanks for the invite, Lor.”

“Sure—it’ll be so tuff.”

“Tuff…” Richie chuckled under his breath.

Laurie sneered at him before returning her attention to Ben. “I gotta jam. Seeya, Ben.”

He raised a hand after her as she left. The door slammed again.

“She’s into you, man.” Ben gave Richie an exhausted look. “Oh...well, there is Stacked Jenny to think about, you’re right.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinkin’ it. You’re a tit man, I know it.”

“Who the hell is Stacked Jenny?”

“Everybody knows Stacked Jenny, she’s fuckin’ stacked.”

“I’m getting real tempted to kick your ass, Rich.”

Richie flashed his perfect son-of-a-dentist grin. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda cute when you’re pissed off?”

Ben stuck his nose back into whatever the fuck Iron Man was up to, hiding his flushed cheeks.

  
  


-

  
  


“So I was telling him it just rained. You know how the dock gets all slippery—”

“We should do something about that.”

“Shut up, Allen. Anyway, he doesn’t listen, and goes fuckin’ bolting for the end, man—I’ve never seen someone that fucked up run so fast. And then he trips! Gets a faceful of dock. Wipes. Out.”

“Get out!”

“Splinters all over him. He was in the clinic for, like, three hours and five or six of us are pulling these suckers out.”

“Holy shit."

“Did he slide?”

“Oh yeah, like a fuckin’ penguin. Didn’t remember a goddamn thing next morning.”

Ben twiddled an empty beer bottle between his fingers. He’d spent the past hour listening to camp stories, each more slurred than the last. The interesting stuff always seemed to happen two or three years back—legends of "Danimal" and "the Steve who took a shit in every canoe".

“What about the time in the mess hall when David fell out of the rafters and broke his leg?”

“Oh yeah, when we were telling ghost stories—” 

“God, the kids almost crapped their pants.”

“ _I_ almost crapped my pants!”

“Dave was on LSD.”

“Bull! How do you climb up that high on that shit?”

“Have you ever tried it?”

“No…”

“He took it in the rafters, you dumbshit.”

It wasn’t a complete waste of time, but he couldn’t help pining for better things to do. Richie had the right idea when he wandered off to get high in the woods. Ben took another peek around the campfire. The girls were all gone, off getting laid. Hell, it was late enough they were probably in their own bunks regretting it by now. He felt for them; guys like these always got too drunk or high to get it up. 

Ben sighed and began racking his brains for an excuse to leave, or find the right time to slip away. The log bench had put his ass to sleep, the fire was roasting the entire front of his body, and he had sobered up too much to ignore it any longer. But he had trapped himself. He'd downed too many beers and knew he’d be steps away from peeing his pants the second he stood up. That was always when it hit you: stand up, pee your pants. He figured he could make it a couple of yards to the cedar tree all the guys liked to piss on when no one was looking. Patrick or Terry or whoever was in the middle of some harrowing tale about leeches and no one would pay Benjamin Hanscom, about to piss in his pants like a kindergartner, any mind. If he hurried, chances were fair.

His ass had barely lifted off the bench when an open palm thudded into the middle of his back. There was a moment of panic when he believed he really was about to pitch forward into a fire pit and wet himself in front of fifteen people.

Richie plopped down next to him, facing away from the bonfire.

“Goddamnit, Rich, I swear—”

“I realized something just now.” Richie leaned in and spoke close to his ear, closer than he should have in public. Smoke still clung to him—his clothes, his hair—and Ben wanted to kiss him right there in front of the other counselors, give them another wild tale to spin three years from now. “Ted ain't here.”

To Ben’s limited anatomical knowledge, there was one defense against a total bladder meltdown: getting really turned on.

“I’m gonna swing by that tree first if you don’t mind.”

Richie's bright blue eyes caught the fire like mirrors, blazing in their own way. “Swing away, Benny.”

When they were kids, Ben thought Richie was exceptionally goofy-looking. His hair was a mess, his nose didn't sit right on his face and his thick glasses made his eyes look like the fucking headlights on a ‘53 Roadster. He liked that about him, though. It made him more approachable, advertised him as someone he could talk to, at least. At some point, that kid who was as much a part of him as his own liver disappeared, faded into some sacred, incorruptible childhood memory. The Richie Tozier who took his place made Ben’s heart slam in his chest, and drove him crazy with sly "fuck me" looks. They were still friends, of course—they still teased each other and talked shit, but when Richie let him in, they could share almost anything, even have conversations without speaking sometimes. If Ben had to call it something, he might’ve gone with intimacy. He just wished he wasn’t so damn afraid of feeling it with anyone else. He wished it for the both of them.

“Rock paper scissors?”

“Alright, you’re on.”

"Rock, paper, scissors, and rock breaks scissors! Spread 'em, Benny boy."

"Aagh…"

“By gawd, it’s the Summer of Richie! Wanna do it on your back or what?”

“Nah, not giving myself a paint job tonight.”

“Some other time?” He tugged on the waistband of Ben’s blue running shorts, easing them and his briefs down over the curve of his ass. Richie let them drop with a flourish. “It’d be a real masterpiece, I bet.”

Ben snorted. “Yeah, try when we're not in this fucking cabin anymore. You're goofy if you think I’m doing the walk of shame to the bath house covered in my own jizz.” Richie threw his head back in a cackle. “I’m serious.”

“Man, think of all the wild stuff we're gonna get up to when we get back next week, ho-lee _shit_.”

Ben braced his elbows on the mattress, jutting his rear out. “Yeah, I know, I'm thinking about it.”

"Thinking about _Bevvie,_ lover boy." Richie traced the firm path from Ben's tight sack up to his asshole. “So, you want her ass or her pussy first?”

He shivered at his touch, blushed at his words. “W-what kind of question is that?”

“An important one. I was thinkin’ Mikey and Big Bill can sit one out, you know? So answer the question.”

“I… I think you're the only one who's actually done anal on Bev.” The thought made his cheeks burn. 

"I'm a regular trailblazer, aren’t I?" Richie said in a deep, silky voice. His cock was just as smooth, sliding warm and heavy in the cleft of Ben’s ass. "I can show you how she likes it."

Ben stood on the tips of his sneakers, tilting his hips to frot himself against Richie top to bottom. Sometimes he felt like the guy was holding out on him. When it came to head, he gave like a philanthropist, but didn’t go all the way with the other guys often—joked about it plenty, but rarely delivered. He hadn’t fucked Ben’s ass all summer, in fact. No wonder his dick was throbbing just from rubbing on the guy like a cat in heat.

“Where’s the lube, Rich?”

“Under the mattress. You know, we should do this more often. I’m seriously digging this view of your—”

“Fuck me.” He twisted his arm back, blindly offering the near-empty lube bottle. “Now.”

“You don’t even want me to get you ready?”

“I’m fucking ready.”

“Alright, alright,” Richie murmured, slicking himself down. Another shiver rolled up Ben’s spine when he smeared the excess between his asscheeks in a teasing circle. “Ya better relax or you’ll snap my dick off.”

“I won’t snap your dick off.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

Richie took a handful of Ben’s ass, spreading him while he held his cock straight and pushed; Ben grunted deep in his chest. The soft dream image of Beverly's face twisted in sweet pain dulled his own. For all of his jack rabbit _c'mon, c'mon, let's go_ bullshit in bed, Richie was always careful with her—even for a regular old missionary-style pounding. He didn’t grant Ben the same courtesy, filling him in one long slide before dragging himself out just a little. A mortifying groan worked its way out of Ben’s throat. He thought he’d choke on it. Richie bottomed out again with a slap, jabbing upward—Ben swore and threw himself back against him.

“Shit—look at you. You want me that bad?”

Of course he did. He fucking loved him. He loved feeling like his body would collapse under the heavy waves of pleasure rocking him in place—and smooth hips, thighs slamming against his ass, hitting him harder and harder, Rich driving his cock in as deep as he could, working him so hard on the inside his body was about to split.

“Need a break?”

“Don't start.”

“Feels good, don't it?”

“Don't do a voice—”

“Answer me, candyass.”

“Y-yeah. It does.”

“Really?” Richie’s voice dripped with wicked delight. “Tell me all about it.”

Ben faltered again, pitching head-first off his plateau. “No—come on, this is stupid—” He yelped as Richie pulled out, shocked at the sudden emptiness. “What the fuck is your problem!?”

Richie didn’t reply.

“Alright—your big, stupid cock feels great up my ass.” Nothing. “Oh, you fucker—incredible. Fuck me with your incredible cock, you son of a bitch—” Richie slid back into him. _SMACK!_ “Oh, god.” _SMACK!_ “Please—” _SMACK!_ Ben uttered a husky gasp. It was like getting back on the ride the second it was over. He felt a euphoric lift in his gut, hyper aware of how hard he was about to rope all over the dusty cabin floor. When he did, he nearly sobbed. His legs trembled, but he stayed up on the toes of his sneakers, hips perfectly angled, his muscles on fire.

Richie’s voice was high and loopy, garbled by the roar of Ben’s heartbeat. “Fuck, I’m gonna come in your ass—I'm so close—”

“Shut up and do it,” Ben growled between his teeth. 

For once, he did as he was told. And with a gruff, strangled grunt, too—rare speech for the Trashmouth. Ben hung his head, staring with hazy fascination at his cock pulsing weakly between his thighs while Richie rode his ass. He didn’t want to see what fell between their ankles. All over his goddamn shorts.

Richie slowed, finally spent and panting. To Ben’s surprise, he slumped forward and wrapped his arms around his waist. He swallowed hard. If Ted was indeed gone for the night, he might ask if they could sleep in a similar position.

“You cool, Rich?”

“Yep. Just gimme fifteen minutes an' I’ll give you a T-house Special.”

Ben gave a breathy laugh. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’ll fuck you in the shower.”

“Oh. Right on.”

“Right on.”

-END-


End file.
